Elysium
by The Insanity of it All
Summary: A letter from the dead drags Norman Jayden back to Philadelphia, PA, but between Triptocaine withdrawal and Blake's witticism, he'll be surprised if he comes out of this with his sanity intact.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Usually I'm not a gamer, but I was so impressed with _Heavy Rain_, I couldn't fight the urge to write something about it. I hope you enjoy...

Title: Elysium

Character POV: Norman Jayden, (Carter Blake,) and the serial killer

Rating: T (for the moment)

Disclaimer: I don't own _Heavy Rain _or any of its characters

***********Spoilers:** This story takes place after the completion of the game if you've managed to keep everyone alive until the bitter end, but accidentally pulled the trigger in the enthused Nathaniel Williams' apartment during his interrogation.

Summary: A letter from the dead drags Norman Jayden back to Philadelphia, PA, but between Triptocaine withdrawal and Blake's witticism, he'll be surprised if he comes out of this with his sanity intact.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

—The sound of rain water rapping on the windowpane, the first few tears of the impending storm as it descended from the heaven. It would wet the many shrivelled, yellow lawns of Boston, Massachusetts, but it wouldn't be nearly enough to quench the summer's thirst.

It was almost always humid in Boston. Not this year, though. The city was parched after three months without rain, desiccated and generally miserable with the sudden change in climate. Nothing was green, just sickly and withered, waiting for winter when the snow would wipe the canvas clear to make way for another summer, a _better_ summer, one which was humid enough to feel in your bones. Boston wanted to be born anew. It liked the rain.

Staring out his living room window, Norman felt oddly at peace.

His return to duty in Washington had been brief before he buckled and requested a short leave to return home, to take a little time off in order to sort out his life before jumping back into the fray. They hadn't hesitated to give it to him either, not Norman Jayden, FBI profiler and poster boy of the bureau since the closing of the Origami Killer case. Scott Shelby was six feet under and Shaun Mars was safe with his father, a fairy tale ending in the public's opinion and a job-well-done in the bureau's.

Turning to the door, Norman shrugged on his raincoat and snatched his umbrella and leather gloves off the closet shelf, pulling himself together before venturing out of the sanctuary of his apartment into the bedlam that was the world.

Slowly, gradually, he'd been weaning off Triptocaine over the course of the last few months, indulging only when needed, a few hours after utilizing the ARI, as was its proper use, before settling down somewhere quiet where he could focus and compose himself. Quitting was out of the question. Tripto and the ARI came hand in hand, something the bureau made sure he understood before signing up as a test subject for their newest toy. Sleek and effective—that's all that mattered to them, all that they wanted to hear about their machine. They warned him, briefly, that there would be side effects, probably a headache or two, nothing he couldn't cure with a hot bath and a good night's rest. No painkillers were permitted, of course, or alcohol or caffeine—no over-the-counter drugs or prescriptions or sedatives, unless he was scheduled for surgery (in which case he would have to hold off on Triptocaine and the ARI for at least a week prior to the operation), or unless he was dying (in which case Triptocaine would be the least of anybody's problems). Triptocaine was absolutely necessary for the wellbeing of the ARI users to counteract the concomitant hallucinations and to help with the stress—and later (the bureau regretted to admit) to prevent the ARI users from surrendering to insanity.

Before getting wind of the first Tripto-related death in the bureau, Norman tried to stop cold turkey. He was robbing himself with Triptocaine—wanted it out of his life completely. That, of course, was before he saw the virtual tanks ambling across his desk, rolling back and forth, cannons aimed at silent enemies that were visible only to themselves. He'd seen other things since that time, old case files hanging open in the air, brief glimpses of the barren desert of Mars, a ball bouncing in the corner—things which prompted him to find a happy medium with Triptocaine and the ARI before he either died or found himself committed to a mental institution.

Even so, the hallucinations were still there—fewer, but still _there_. Like now, as he climbed down the apartment stairs, watching as a virtual, blue ball bounced up and down merrily on the landing between the third and second floor.

Norman slowed to a halt. Watched. Waited. When nothing particularly interesting or spectacular happened, he resumed his descent and tried to pretend he hadn't seen anything at all. It was easier this way. It was the only way to cope.

Then the ball smashed the stairwell window.

Turning on the spot, halfway down the next set of stairs, he glanced at the landing where the ball once bounced, invisible now, to find that it had left nothing in its wake. The window was still intact, not a scratch or crack. For all it cared, there was never a ball to begin with...

Cautiously, he made his way back up to the landing and felt his vision blur momentarily as he began to panic. The hallucinations had _never_ manifested themselves in such a way before, and if they continued to develop aggressively he would have to tell the bureau and return to Washington for a psychological evaluation. Not that he had much of a choice anyway. Norman's name was gold in the eyes of media—they would be forced to remove him immediately from sight, stow him away in a padded room and pretend he was off on one mission or another in the good, old name of America. That would be the end of him.

Norman didn't quite fancy the idea of spending the remainder of his life in an asylum. He was a young overachiever, an enthusiast and a man dedicated to the wellbeing of the law abiding (and not-so-law-abiding) citizens of the country. He had too much life left to live. Now was not the time to lose it.

He stood there idly for a second and contemplated how difficult it would be to escape a mental institution (which really all depended on how things progressed and how dangerous his superiors figured him to be when he was in a state of duress), before something else occurred to him. He darted up the stairs, unlocked his apartment door and stepped inside to find his living room rug covered in shards of glass and rain water.

For the moment, he ignored said glass and rain water and instead crouched down carefully to pick up the rock sitting meekly on the floor beside his armchair. Carefully, he untied the rope ravelled around the stone and relieved it of the message in its possession.

Unfolding the letter, he glanced briefly at the _'Dear Mr. Norman Jayden'_, skimming the words to see if he could recognize the handwriting, before moving on to the body of the message:

_The dead cannot testify._

_Ribbon on the wrist_

_Save yourself._

_God bless,_

_Nathaniel Williams_

He felt his blood run cold, the evening chill corkscrewing down his spine. Slowly, he straightened himself up and stepped over the glass to place the wet letter on the desk in the corner. Then he picked up the phone and made a call to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, all the while hoping his nerves wouldn't win the best of him and cave into the little voice in the back of his mind, the one asking him if _now_ would be a good time to take some Triptocaine.

No, _now_ was not a good time for Triptocaine. Nathaniel Williams was dead. Norman shot him. End of story.

At least, it should've been.

A/N: There will be speech in the next chapter. I promise.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you for the wonderful reviews. I hope to update regularly, but if you have a problem with the story please feel free to tell me. I don't offend easily.

Title: Elysium

Character POV: Norman Jayden, (Carter Blake), as well as inserts by the killer (Вбивця)

Rating: T (for the moment) for language and violence

Disclaimer: I don't own _Heavy Rain _or any of its characters

***********Spoilers:** This story takes place after the completion of the game if you've managed to keep everyone alive until the bitter end, but accidentally pulled the trigger in the enthused Nathaniel Williams' apartment during his interrogation.

Summary: A letter from the dead drags Norman Jayden back to Philadelphia, PA, but between Triptocaine withdrawal and Blake's witticism, he'll be surprised if he comes out of this with his sanity intact.

It was partly cloudy when he landed in Philadelphia, the sky nothing more than a gray smear above the horizon, but he could feel the humidity here better than Boston. The air stuck to his skin as he gathered his suitcase from the drop-off conveyor belt and carried it to the nearest entrance. With his free hand he fingered his collar, fidgeting in the August warmth, and wandered off to the taxi curb.

Much to his surprise, he found Carter Blake waiting outside, leaning against his old 95 Caprice, arms crossed, posture tense, looking just as bitter now as when Norman left him.

"Son of a bitch."

Good to see nothing changed.

"You didn't have to come," Norman replied. He didn't call Blake to pick him up and he kindly declined the precinct's offer of a ride from the airport. He needed a little space, more now than ever before.

Blake laughed at him under his breath and climbed into the driver's seat.

Norman dropped his suitcase into the trunk before joining him up front, pulling his seatbelt on as the man practically sprang the car from the parking space onto the road. He wasn't surprised. Blake was usually in a rush.

"I was told you received a letter from Nathaniel Williams," the old man began, waiting for the car in the left lane to either speed up or slow down so he could cut in. Norman was amazed Captain Perry would partner them up again—but the head of the Homicide division had his own agenda and using Blake to keep Norman in line didn't sound like too much of a stretch. Norman had a knack for stepping on toes, especially those of the political variety, and Blake had a knack for breaking said toes when they stepped out of line.

"Yesterday."

"Any prints? Any idea who delivered it?"

Norman almost laughed. No, there weren't any prints—no sightings of the individual that 'delivered' it either. "I came up with nothing," he said, "Not even on the rock."

"The rock?"

"The one that escorted the letter through my window."

Blake had a solemn look about him. Eyes narrow, almost squinting in the dim light, he looked older now than Norman remembered. "Nothing on the other letter either."

Norman blinked. "Other letter?"

"Yep, but at least the little prick had the courtesy of putting it in my mailbox. Probably too scared to bust my windows."

Norman couldn't exactly blame the offender there. Blake was liable enough to shoot someone for trespassing on his property, and with Perry in power he was likely to get away with it too.

It was not as though Blake was a bad cop—quite the contrary, he supposed, at least by what he heard from the other officers at the precinct. The man was smart and he knew how to do his homework, he just came off as rough with newcomers and rookies. After a while, Blake had eventually grown on the others.

Despite that claim, Blake hadn't grown on him. Talking with lieutenant was like chewing on glass.

"What did it say?"

Blake laughed again and shook his head. "Nuh-uh—my case. What did _yours_ say?"

Norman leaned his head back against the seat and weighed his options: play nice now and hope Blake didn't take that as an invitation to walk all over him, or persist and tell him where he could shove his authority.

Normally, he didn't take shit from anybody—he was FBI, after all—but his patience was paper thin and he was exhausted. His gradual withdrawal from Triptocaine had left him feeling relatively weak and sooner or later Blake was going to pick up on that.

"'_Dear Mr. Norman Jayden: The dead cannot testify. Ribbon on the wrist. Save yourself. God bless, Nathaniel Williams.'"_

Blake _hnn_-ed and kept his eyes on the road. After a long while, in which Norman wondered whether or not he'd made the right decision, the lieutenant replied: "Mine was addressed to _'The Anti-Christ'_ and it didn't say _'God bless'_. The motherfucker signed it with _'Go to hell'._"

Norman turned his gaze to the side window and stared out at the passing scenery, mind wandering as he compared the letters. Their malefactor knew Nathaniel Williams well enough to recognize Blake as the dead man's tormentor, and it was possible he didn't realize Norman was the one who pull the trigger on the enthusiast. But then, why send Norman a letter to begin with? It was at least obvious that the offender knew Norman and Blake were partners during the FBI's stay in Philadelphia, and that Norman had something to do with the man's untimely death.

The list of suspects was a long one. Employers, relatives, neighbours, fellow parishioners (if Nathaniel practiced anywhere outside his apartment)—Norman needed something else to go by. He couldn't make a half-decent profile just yet.

"Do you have any idea what he means by _'Ribbon on the wrist'_?"

Blake almost grimaced. Almost. "Boy, do I have something to show you..."

------------------[~*~Вбивця~*~]---------------------

He killed the engine and sat in silence across the road, hands folded peacefully on his lap, watching the woman in her driveway as she unloaded groceries from the back of her Highlander SUV. A large brown bag braced against each hip, she kneed the door shut and pressed the automatic-lock command on her key chain before making her way to the front entrance of the duplex. She fumbled with her keys, dropped them and struggled not to lose hold of anything else as she leaned over pick them up.

Almost as though he was working on automatic, he exited his car and crossed the street.

Just as she straightened, successful in her feat, she caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye and jumped, turning halfway to face him as he reached out to grab her, frightened, tense, prepared for the worse.

Steadying her by her arm, she smiled nervously at him, body slowly relaxing in his grip as she recognized him—his eyes, his grin, his faux affection as he relieved her of a bag and followed her to the front entrance. Quietly, she unlocked the door and let him, wandering into the kitchen to put her things away, fluttering about her house like a canary in a cage, safe but trapped, beautiful but fading, just the same as many of the others before her.

When she asked him if he would like some tea, his mouth said, _'Yes, tea would be lovely'_.

But when she spun around to turn on the electric kettle, the hands around her neck told her _No_.

A/N: I promise that future chapters won't be as brief.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Just wanted to say thanks again for the wonderful reviews. Usually, I try to reply to them with a private message but, sadly, I can't if you don't have an account/return address. In any case, you're praise is much appreciated. I do read what you send me.

Title: Elysium

Character POV: Norman Jayden, (Carter Blake), as well as inserts by the killer (Вбивця)

Rating: T (for the moment) for language and violence

Disclaimer: I don't own _Heavy Rain _or any of its characters

***********Spoilers:** This story takes place after the completion of the game if you've managed to keep everyone alive until the bitter end, but accidentally pulled the trigger in the enthused Nathaniel Williams' apartment during his interrogation.

Summary: A letter from the dead drags Norman Jayden back to Philadelphia, PA, but between Triptocaine withdrawal and Blake's witticism, he'll be surprised if he comes out of this with his sanity intact.

* * *

He eyed the box warily for a moment, worried at what horrors he might find inside, before nodding at the door to his old, moth infested office and reaching for the sunglasses in the left breast pocket of his beaten coat. Acrimoniously, Blake leaned over to close it.

Norman whipped out the ARI.

The overhead lights dimmed, the colour of the room lost its lustre and Blake now stood perched on the very edge of his vision, a phantom in this synthetic plane of reality. As Norman slipped on the glove, the terrene came to life at his finger tips and he began the slow process of recording this session for future reference in his virtual, sublunary world.

He lifted the lid, set it aside and grabbed the first evidence bag off the top of the pile. The ARI immediately identified it as _'costae fluitantes, vertebral rib XII'_—the lowest rib, left side, male, broken in half so that all he held was the anterior end—decorated with a bright, yellow ribbon. The ARI identified no prints. No match for the victim's DNA either, presenting Norman with what he feared to be the first of many John Does. Staring down at the twenty other bags stacked in the box, the ARI commending each rib to memory—some female, some from the right side of the body—Norman was faced with a sea of strangers, identifiable only by the colour of their bows. Not one of the victims was on file.

Norman supposed he didn't have to ask Blake whether or not he already checked the Missing Persons reports lately. Already having inspected the precinct's database, the ARI told him the first bone was delivered anonymously to the police a little over five years ago. Seeing as no bodies had obviously been picked up by the police department yet and that no story on this serial killer had been made public in the last couple of years, Norman wondered briefly if these victims were what the media liked to think of as "nobodies", the homeless and the voiceless, people who slipped between the cracks without ever being noticed.

He hoped this wasn't a House Cleaner, a serial killer with the self-appointed duty of pecking off the less desirable members of society in the belief that he was doing everyone else a favour. Then again, House Cleaner's didn't necessarily send the police evidence detailing every murder. Their victims meant nothing to them...

Through the plastic bag, Norman stared at the yellow bow.

"He expects us to find the bodies."

"Then why the hell send us the souvenirs?"

Norman placed the rib back on the top of the pile and closed the lid. His mouth felt dry. "It's an identification system. Both letters mentioned a ribbon tied to the victim's wrist—each victim has a corresponding ribbon here on their rib. It's how he's helping us keep track of his victims."

Blake muttered something under his breath. Norman thought it sounded a hell of a lot like _'sick son of a bitch'_ but he could've been mistaken.

"What does our list of suspects look like?"

"Longer than the goddamn bible. He frequented several Catholic churches over the course of the week and belonged to a therapy group run by his psychiatrist, Dr. Leroy Jones. Williams would rant at anybody with the time to listen."

"Any family in Philadelphia?" He inquired.

"No, but his neighbours tell me he has a nephew in Trenton that's gonna to drop by his apartment sometime this week to clear out the place. He'll have a hell of a time getting all those crosses off the wall."

Norman could remember the crosses—the alters, the pills, the writing on the walls—and Nathaniel Williams, tall and fidgety, duly alarmed to find a federal agent and the so-called 'Antichrist' mucking around in what should've been his sanctuary. Nathaniel Williams didn't deserve to die, even _if_ his death brought to light the agenda of another serial killer. Norman wasn't too keen on this _'For the Greater Good'_ business.

Slipping off the ARI glasses, Norman tucked them away in his coat pocket and rubbed the bridge of his nose tenderly. He had to start cutting back on his virtual time.

It's was giving him a hell of a migraine.

"Where do you want to start?" he asked, ignoring the look Blake gave him when he glanced at the lieutenant. The older man was quietly peeling back Norman's layers with his eyes. "Neighbours, parishioners or this Dr. Leroy Jones?"

"I have Detective Ash nosing around the apartment in case anyone decides to drop by. I say we start with Dr. Jones."

The psychiatrist, of course. To be honest, that would've his first choice too. Norman wanted to know if the man had really prescribed Nathaniel all those pills or if Williams had alternative methods of getting his hands on a few drugs. More than a just few, actually. Nathaniel had a swarm of bottles scattered everywhere in apartment but the living room.

"Jones it is then," he murmured in accession, following the lieutenant out into the hall. As they beelined through the fray, pausing briefly so Blake could snatch the car keys off the top of his desk, Norman caught sight of Captain Perry watching him from across the room. The man didn't say anything, didn't move either, but he really didn't have to. The look said it all.

'_Don't screw with us.'_

Norman averted his eyes, pretending he didn't see anything at all.

Everyone knew he had a thing for stepping on toes.

- [~*~Carter Blake~*~] -

He couldn't say that he enjoyed having the FBI back in Philadelphia but it was something of a relief when Captain Perry informed him Norman Jayden had received a letter similar to his own only a day ago and was currently en route to sort things out. Carter had no patience for all this Antichrist crap. Even less so if he was the only one that had to deal with it.

Since Boston was a far cry for Jayden to drive, the kid left his vehicle back home and Carter took uncontested reign over the car. Jayden bitched when he almost ran a red light but kept mostly to himself until they reached Leroy's quaint, little clinic by the river valley, a brick, two-storey building the doctor apparently shared with two of his fellow specialists.

When Carter killed the engine, Jayden's hand absently edged toward the sunglasses in his coat pocket before he seemingly realized what he was doing and lifted his hand a little further to fix his collar instead. The little scene didn't go unnoticed by Carter.

The kid was odd.

Carter honestly didn't have a clue what was wrong with Jayden and his specs. The kid used them once for his presentation in the Origami debriefing and Carter had seen the ethereal, blue glow behind the lenses on more than one occasion, almost as though the FBI had managed to squeeze a computer into the tiny glasses and told their agents to have a go at it. He'd walked in on Jayden moving invisible files with his hands before, murmuring '_ARI Comment'_ every now and again before going into great detail about their assignment. It obviously worked well as an aid and Jayden never left his office without it.

Obviously something was wrong with it now.

Or Jayden.

Carter preferred the latter.

The sun took a moment to shine as they marched through the front entrance and into the reception area. The secretary, a petite woman with a severe bun and a doleful look, stared at them over the rim of her spectacles before asking, meekly, who they were and if they had made an appointment. When Carter asked to see Nathaniel's psychiatrist, she looked down at her keyboard and shook her head. This did not bode well.

"If you tell me he's skipped town, we're going to have a problem, Miss."

"No officer," she replied quietly.

"Then what's the problem?"

Her glasses slipped down the bridge of her nose and she paused to push them back into place. Pleadingly, she glanced at Jayden, obviously drawn in by his youth and calm demeanour, hoping he would take a gentler approach with their little interrogation.

Jayden opened his mouth to speak—

"_Hey_—look at me, lady."

—and shot Carter a dirty look out of the corner of his eye.

"It's really quite unfortunate that you came today," the woman explained.

He was getting tired of beating around the bush, so he shifted the weight between his feet and leaned against the secretary's counter, blocking her view of Jayden. "And why's that?"

"Well..."

"—He's dead."

Both he and Jayden turned simultaneously to look at the young fellow that poked his head out into the hallway. The plate by his office door read _'Dr. Jonathon Kord'_ and he looked tired. "You're talking about Leroy Jones, right?"

Jayden nodded.

"Then yeah—he's dead."

"Since when?"

"Since yesterday. The guy had a heart attack."

Dr. Kord disappeared back into his office and Carter stood there quietly for a second or two. He glanced at Jayden, who glanced at him, and then there was a moment where he was almost certain they were on the same page.

Leroy's death seemed awfully convenient.

Needless to say, neither of them was pleased with the development.


End file.
